


She Wore Gloves

by seperis



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-11-12
Updated: 2000-11-12
Packaged: 2018-06-03 04:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6597112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bartender's got this great story.  Grab a beer and siddown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She Wore Gloves

**Author's Note:**

> Original Notes: exhibitionistic smut. I'm channeling something that needs therapy or maybe I just need a life. Sare betaed, thank ya darlin', whatever would I do without you?
> 
> Author retrospective: Outsider pov of exhibitionistic not-quite-sex (really enthusiastic making out?). But! Not in dialect! Mostly. Thank God. I feel better about my life and choices. Though the author notes above do display my dislike of the letter 'g' when using gerunds. I really have no excuse.

You ever see a woman who just makes you just stop and thank God you're a man and you got the chance to see her?

I saw her.

She reeked of class. That was the first thing I noticed, even in those clothes, even with those boots. She didn't belong here at all. She belonged up on sixth, stalking through the clubs for men with credit ratings and a Lexus to their names. That kind of girl.

And she was dangerous. You get that, in my line of work, a certain sense for things like that. She looked delicate and breakable, but she carried herself like an naked knife, and that you just don't see in the women that come in here. She walked in like she owned the place and everyone in it, and every eye turned on her just from that force.

And she was fucking young to look like that.

Legs a mile long, black stockings, boots that brushed her knee with a fucking long way for the eyes to travel up before they met the edge of the tightest skirt I've had the good fortune to see. Sleeveless black top that shimmered even in the yellowed light of the bar and leather gloves that stretched to brush just above her elbows. Dark eyes that didn't give anything away and dark hair shot with a line of white. Red lips. Pale skin. She looked good enough to eat if you wanted to be cut. Shit, it'd be worth it.

God, those gloves were the thing that held me. Never saw anything like them.

And to draw the eye right fucking down her cleavage--a long metal chain, the end tucked between her breasts. Tags on the end, almost hidden. Damn, damn, damn.

Anyway, she came up to the bar and swung a leg over the barstool and every man who still could breathe sucked in a breath to watch that. Braced one arm on the battered wood, leaned forward, giving me one hell of an eyeful that she didn't seem to care about at all.

"Beer."

Rich low voice, slight Southern drawl--Mississippi if I ain't mistaken, and I usually ain't. Like pure chocolate to listen to. Like slow sex at midnight in a hot room.

Shit, she was one of a kind, she was.

I gave her her beer and she turned on that stool, legs crossing under the weight of all those eyes most likely, to stare at the cage. Watched it while she sipped, and I moved, I admit it, to watch her face, saw a little smile, watched the narrowed focus of those eyes on one of them and I knew exactly what she wanted and you know, she was in the right place to get it.

"How long?" she asked me, as if she knew I was still there, still watching her. And she probably did--she didn't miss much.

"Three minutes." The competitor maybe had a minute left--I could tell Wolverine was getting annoyed. The other guy was less than useless--why the fuck he was even here was a question probably only his own suicidal tendencies could answer.

"What's the odds on the next one?"

I checked the roster.

"Thirteen to one."

She half-turned, one eyebrow shooting up.

"You think the other guy has a chance?"

Nah. I've watched him fight before. Against Wolverine--well, he'd be lucky to walk out of there. Literally, friends.

"You placing a bet, lady?"

She smirked a little, dropped a wad of bills on the bar.

"Three hundred for--the Wolverine, right?" Those dark eyes closed briefly and she turned around, back to watching with that same intent stare that would have scared and excited me if I'd been the recipient. God, I wanted to be. Married for thirteen years, but you don't see something like her every day.

Fuck that--you don't see anything like her _ever_. Like once in a fucking lifetime, if you're damned lucky.

She watched the guy go down and I saw those long, leather-covered fingers dig into her thigh, her chest rise just a little--

"Whiskey--two shots. I gotta congratulate the winner before the next round," she told me over her shoulder, that smile on her face widening just a little, just enough to see a hint of teeth and the tip of a pink tongue. She threw back the rest of the beer and I poured those whiskeys thinking about that smile and those gloves, how they must feel on your skin. When I got back, she left some money on the bar--I didn't even count it, just dropped it in the register--and she picked up the shots and made her way across the room like it would open up before her.

And it did. Like walking through sand, they all moved outta her way. I told you, she wasn't just gorgeous--she was dangerous. Like touching her would kill you but it would be fucking good way to die.

She got to the cage as the last guy was hauled out and slipped her hand in the opening. He saw the shot, barely looked at her--how the fuck he could miss her was beyond me--and threw it without a word, turning to hand her the glass.

And that's when he looked at her hand.

It took awhile--that gaze traveled all the way up her arm, taking time to get to her face, and he caught her wrist, jerking her against the metal between them.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

Lemme tell you, there wasn't _no one_ missing this.

"Hey, sugar." She tilted her head--no fear on her, just something like amusement and a lot of other things, pressed up against the side of the cage like she was pressing up against a body--shit, I wanted to be that metal. "Whatcha been up to?"

The next guy was coming in and Wolverine stared at her for a minute, then let her go. You'd have had to pry my fingers from her--if I could touch her, I'd never stop.

"Get out."

He must have fucking lost his mind. She didn't move her hand from where he left it for a second, folding her fingers down to her palm.

"I'll wait." Then she took her shot and dropped the empty glass on the floor, turned around, walking back to the bar, not giving a good damn who watched her. Maybe knowing how everyone looked at those yards of legs, at that little black skirt and the swing of her ass, at those gloves that just held my gaze like nothing else. And she gave me a smirk and ordered another beer.

Wolverine--he kept his eyes on her through it all--I'm not sure he was even aware he had an opponent, just knocked the poor bastard out without a glance, then shook his head and turned his back on her and shit--shit, how the fuck he did that I don't know.

She just smiled, straddled that barstool like she would a man's lap and took the next beer in one hand and the money from my fingers--damn, the feel of that leather is something I ain't ever forgetting. Gave me a smirk and swiveled the whole stool around and focused her eyes back on him.

We all wanted to be him. Shit, I'd've sold my soul to get her to look at me like that.

He went through two more fights and I almost had to believe that he'd forgotten all about her--crazy as that sounds--when she moved to a booth with a glass and someone with more balls than I can ever lay claim to walked over there. I watched them chat, saw her shake her head and turn her eyes back on the cage, and the idiot grabbed at her arm, trying to jerk her around--he'd been drinking way too fucking much. She pulled back, a fist landed in his face and he was down for the count. She gave him a glance when he hit the floor and then took a pull of her beer and forgot all about him.

She was in a class by herself.

But apparently, Wolverine had been watching, saw it and didn't like it one fucking bit. The next guy who came in didn't even get the chance to try and look dangerous before he was so much twitching meat on the ground. Then he knocked the door open and was out of there, stalked across the room, and was standing over her in that booth.

And you know everyone was watching. I think some people stopped breathing.

"Ready to talk?" she--I fucking swear she purred, putting the glass down and leaning back a little into the seat, one of those booted legs braced beside her, supporting her arm. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and jerked her straight up and out and she only smiled, leaning back against the table and giving him a long look.

"I'm taking you home."

"That's a waste. I just got here." She reached behind her and got her glass, smiling still like there was nothin' going on but pleasant small talk. He took it from her hand, threw it behind him--hit someone that wasn't so stupid as to actually complain--and I could see from my post behind the bar he was growling. Said something very low and she shook her head, then braced a hand behind her and lifted herself on that table like the best damned entree a man ever saw.

"I've waited long enough, Logan."

She leaned back on one arm, staring up at him with those big eyes, like she was stripping him naked right there--and she'd do it, too. It was written all over her face.

"I'm all grown up."

Shit, you better believe it, and I wanted to know where it happened, how to get there, and if there were more like her.

He took a step forward, letting her wrist go, and she straightened and peeled the glove off that hand with her teeth--I couldn't look away and neither could he. Pale skin--like it had only glanced at the sun--slim wrist you just wanted to feel with your lips to see if it was as soft as it looked--long fingers with short nails--and she drew her fingers down his cheek like a ritual.

It looked good. It looked like something I wanted to try.

She let the glove fall to her lap and I couldn't help watching it land between her legs, slightly spread on the table. His eyes followed it too and stayed there for awhile, then running back up her body slow and cool.

"All grown up." And her voice went straight to my groin and it was all I could do to just stand there and stare.

Logan--never knew his name before, but it fit--covered her hand, pulling it down, and that bastard, I thought, was just as fucking crazy as I'd always believed.

"This ain't the place, Marie."

She just shook her head, slid one of those legs up around his thigh, and pulled him against the table--against her. I could see the heel of her boot digging into the back of his knee and my own leg twitched.

"Now." She took a breath, staring up at him. "And it's Rogue."

We on this side of the bar were all quiet--I don't even think they noticed. Someone else entered the cage and I'm not sure anyone will ever remember what happened during that fight--but I bet everyone can tell you what happened in that booth. Because you remember some things for the rest of your life and this was one of them.

She slid her gloved hand down his arm, then ran it down the outside of his thigh, taking her time, keeping those eyes fixed on his--then slid her body to the very edge of that table right up against him, toes of one boot barely brushing the floor, tilting her head all the way back--

No man can resist an invitation like that. And he showed that he does have some sense, because he let her wrist go, slid a hand in that hair, and kissed her. Pushed her right back against the top of that table, lifting that long thigh up against his hip, and that skirt rode up enough for all of us to note that this girl didn't wear any underwear and didn't wear them fucking well. That gloved hand went around his back and he got both her hands, pinning them above her head, staring at her like she was the best damned dinner on this side of the border.

She sure as hell was. No question of it. None at fucking all.

"Here and now?" If the bar hadn't been so fucking focused on them I never woulda heard it. She tightened that leg around him, arching her back a little.

"You got it."

Then his head came up, taking a breath--remembering where the fuck they were, damn it--and pulled her to her feet by her bare hand.

"Let's go." His voice was low and he didn't take his eyes off her. Not for a second.

She brushed her fingers down her skirt--kind of grinned, looked up at him again with those eyes that just screamed she knew how to make you beg if that's what she wanted to do--and followed him out, and we could all hear the sounds of those heels clicking on the floor, it was that fucking quiet. She had that other glove in her free hand and damn if I didn't want to lay her back on that table with her wearing those gloves.

Shit, we all did.

And they walked out and maybe every breath let out right then.

Because damn, you can't pay for that kind of show.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] She Wore Gloves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/641170) by [oohshinyfangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oohshinyfangirl/pseuds/oohshinyfangirl)




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